I spent most of the day doing some tent inventory. Tents of various shapes, poles of various lengths, all different colors and fabrics. And smells. Part of my task today was to determine whether a tent is Too Smelly To Use Again. I found quite a few Slightly Funky tents, which I dutifully so tagged. But the worst was the one I tagged “Smells Like A Dirty Diaper.” I am assuming (hoping) that I will be eventually asked to dispose of the Dirty Diaper.
Today was my first full day at work without J, my second week on maintenance. It seems that I have settled into the margins. A little less than two weeks is not ideal for integrating oneself into a small community. And so I find my mind drifting to thoughts of departure. I felt the first pang of loneliness – alone in my clean garage, setting up tents I do not know and will never use. Like an arbitrary wind, unexpected and unexplained, I thought about whether I could really live in Alaska forever.
Later in the day, the Historian and I took another hike. We again talked of many things such as China, global warming, blueberry pies, baked beans, and cholesterol.
Bella Hammond's Blueberry Pie:
- graham cracker crust
- boil blueberries, cornstarch to thicken
- pour into crust, refrigerate
- add fresh blueberries, top with 2" layer of whipped cream.
The Historian's Boston Baked Beans:
- 1 ceramic bean pot
- 1 bag of beans from Maine (red or pinto will also do)
- dried ginger
- dried mustard
- molasses
- 1 onion
- Canadian bacon
Soak beans overnight. Boil in soaking water. Take spoonful of beans, blow on them, and if peels move, take off heat. Drain liquid. Put whole onion at bottom of pot. Mix other ingredients into paste. Add paste to beans, add water. Bake for 12 hours at 350F.
In order to keep pace with him, my mind was mostly focused on the roots and mud underfoot, with an occasional pause to admire something unusual or out of place, like a lone fireweed at the top of Beaver Loop or a patch of fiery red moss where all other moss was green. The Historian pointed out a ripe salmonberry and explained that these are different from the ones growing on the other side of the Inlet. Indeed. The berries back home are watery and don’t taste much like anything. These Lake Clark salmonberries are more fragrant, a little pungent. I cannot recall it perfectly as they were tiny jewels that disappeared in a quick swallow.
The end (or return leg) of Beaver Loop was really quite lovely. The dogwood is no longer blooming with its perfect star-like white flowers, but in their place were tight cluster of perfect red berries. I saw some lupine on the hike (first I’ve seen since Anchorage) and wondered what my own lupine looks like right now. But what I think what is quickly becoming my favorite is the forest of birch. With their gentle, leaning order to the landscape, birch glens leave me feeling very calm.
At home, I decided I had fully earned my frozen enchiladas packed from Anchorage and could not resist making some Lazy Man Lake Clark Bread Pudding:
- Sauté chopped white peaches in a pat of butter.
- Add half can of mango juice to thicken into syrup.
- Add chopped bread and vanilla yogurt.
- Dust with cinnamon.
After dessert, it was looking rather beautiful out, so I decided to sneak in an evening stroll in my pajamas since all of my other clothes were in the wash. I had no clear idea of where I was heading, feeling only an urge to see more sky and a little more of the day. I found myself going to my stomping grounds – past the shop – and then to the runway, gravel and sky with trees as minor characters. I walked down the length of the runway to where it meets the bay. The bay was eerily lit by dusk – I wished I had a boat to take on further explorations of the Lake.But I had no way of getting back onto the water, so I decided to turn back toward the shop. The side garage door was open and the light was on. Two members of the maintenance crew were working on an outboard. Leon (my pilot) was also there, just shooting the breeze in the maintenance shop at 10:45pm.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the late night attendance; after all, I was out on my own evening stroll in my PJs. While I was there, I watched the mechanic refasten the drip pan and also learned what a torque wrench looks like. The men allowed me to hover like a mosquito and thankfully did not swat me away.
Watching the men chat and turn wrenches with their greasy hands, I suddenly became very thirsty, maybe hungry, when I remembered that I had a luscious slice of cantaloupe in the shop refrigerator. So I snacked on cantaloupe as the guys finished up and then walked home with fork in one hand, fruit in the other.
As I trudged along the path to the house, I thought about what an odd picture I made, with my evening-stroll fork and cantaloupe. To make matters worse, my evening outfit consisted of:
- my chartreuse slip-on garden clogs
- white socks
- baggy blue sweatpants
- my fuchsia rain jacket
- and my light brown Hike Alaska! cap.
Just as I was thinking about how weird I must look, I bumped into one of my neighbors, clearly dressed for bed, hair still wet from a shower. She was carrying several baking pans and cookie sheets full of frozen blueberries. Apparently her husband had picked them earlier, and she was retrieving them from their auxiliary freezer. Perhaps I'd fit right into Port Alsworth more than I think.
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